


Coat Pockets

by Petrichor24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable John Watson, Adorable Sherlock, Cute, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Was meant to be shorter but I got carried away oops, mystrade a little too but its subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 01:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9151363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petrichor24/pseuds/Petrichor24
Summary: When Sherlock and his blogger companion go out on a case in the middle of the British winter, John makes a mistake.He forgets his coat.So, to keep his hands warm, he puts them in Sherlock's pockets. The oddness of this action and their sudden proximity leads in unexpected directions





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here you go - my first published non-Star Wars fanfiction. I really should have done some Johnlock sooner…   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this slightly awkward moment between my favourite consulting nerdlet and his blogger boyfriend.
> 
> (Oh, and thank to Tumblr for the prompt. I have once again forgotten what blog it came from. But thanks anyway.)

The snow drifted through the busy streets of London, swept up by the wind and the cars and the people walking swiftly to work. Amidst this cold, grey-white maze of buildings stood John Watson. He shivered.  
“Are you cold?” Came Sherlock’s clipped voice, his eyes meeting John’s. The detective looked bored, and his cocked eyebrow said I-told-you-so. John harrumphed, hugging himself tighter and tucking his hands under his arms to keep them warm. Sherlock just watched him. “What? It’s not that cold.” The shorter man looked away from the piercing eyes of his companion, cursing himself. He had been so eager to go with Sherlock on this case that he had left their apartment without a coat. He glanced at Sherlock long, warm jacket and frowned. “If you want it, you can wear it.” Came that smooth voice again, his gaze still firmly fixed on the street before them. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock’s mouth tweaked downwards slightly,  
“We won’t be long, anyway. I hope.” John laughed quietly, aware that Sherlock gave him a strange look. “What’s so funny?”  
“I don’t know. You, I suppose.”  
“I’m funny? Why is that?” Sherlock had scrunched up his nose in mild indignation, and John covered his mouth with a hand, stifling his chuckle. “You have strange mannerisms, and they’re... cute.” The word had slipped out before John could stop it, and he immediately felt himself going red. Sherlock didn’t seem to react to his comment, shrugging and returning his eyes to the people passing them. Sherlock was, in fact, trying to decipher the meaning of the accidental adjective. 'Did John mean just that the mannerisms were cute, regardless of who was performing them? Or did he mean I was cute, in addition to my mannerisms? Anyway, how could my mannerisms be mine if they weren’t done by me?' Sherlock thought. He was so preoccupied with thinking about John’s words that he had forgotten to look for their suspect. “There he is! In the green hat.” John muttered to the detective, pointing a subtle finger in the man’s direction. Sherlock watched him walk swiftly past the big black door to number 44, and then double back on their side of the road, before crossing over and ringing the bell. Trying to clear the fog in his mind, he dashed across the street, pulling John with him by the arm. He tried the door frantically, finding it locked. The detective made an annoyed growl, surprising John. He, however, did not try to break open the door or shoot out the lock. Sherlock just gave John a searching look. The other man really did look cold. But he said he would be fine... I shouldn’t be worrying, Sherlock fretted silently. “Let’s go back to Baker Street. I’ll call Lestrade when we get there. Maybe he may catch Mr Marchall for us.”  
“Marchall?” John said, confused again by one of his companion’s leaps of deduction. Sherlock nodded sharply, looking at the other man, “Yes, this man we have been following is one Leon Marchall, you may know the name-”  
“Yes, yes! I know who he is. But how are you so sure?” He knew it was a stupid question the moment it escaped his lips. Sherlock chuckled, “Ah, John. Once again, you have overlooked certain details. I am sure because I have observed that it is him. Open your eyes to the crime scene, next time.” John cursed his friend and how patronizing he was at times like these. 

The shorter man spent some minutes devising a punishment for Sherlock, just because he was cold, and that made him mildly vengeful. They were nearing a taxi rank, where they would find their ride home, when John noticed the large pockets in Sherlock’s coat. He had a terrific idea.

“And that’s how we got together, I suppose.” John smiled, his eyes bright. Sherlock sat on the arm of the chair his boyfriend had claimed, folding his long legs under him. The small group of people who had gathered for the party had been listening intently, but now Lestrade spoke, “But what actually happened? You said about your terrific idea, but how did that lead to,” He gestured to John and Sherlock, their hands twined together, “This?” A couple of nods from other people, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson being two of them, made both men laugh. A nod from John had Sherlock finishing their tale.

Sherlock strode swiftly along the frosty street, wanting to be home quickly, but unaware exactly why. Then he felt a pressure just below his hips, in his coat pockets. He stopped and felt John bump into him with a slightly surprised noise. Sherlock looked over his shoulder with a bemused expression, “What are you doing?” John smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes;  
“I’m warming my hands.”  
“In my coat pockets?”  
“Obviously.” Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to this, his face crumpled (adorably, in John's opinion). The shorter man raised his eyebrows, “Something wrong with that, Mr Holmes?” John felt Sherlock shudder slightly, and he grinned. “Uh, well... John? Uhm. Can you, possibly...” He stumbled over the sentence he wanted to say, unsure of what he was trying to convey. John had never seen the Detective so lost for words. Deciding that trying was futile, he gently pulled John’s hands out of his pockets, spun around to face the doctor and slid his hands back where they had been. Now they were gazing straight at each other and seemed closer together than they had ever been. “John?”  
“Sherlock?” Came the other man’s strangled reply. The detective laughed, a deep sound that resonated through John’s chest; “Are you still cold?” John didn’t know which answer would get him what he wanted (and he didn’t really know what he wanted either), and so he answered truthfully, “Yes, terribly.”  
“What parts of you are still cold?” Sherlock muttered, his eyes getting darker by the second. John swallowed thickly, suddenly almost speechless. “My lips.” He hazarded, trying not to shake and hoping that was what Sherlock had meant. The Detective grinned, leaning down and kissing his companion gently, the collar of his coat acting almost as their shield from the world. John’s breath hitched, his hands gripping onto the fabric of Sherlock’s coat. After a what could have been a minute or several hours, Sherlock pulled back and said, “Better?”  
“M-much.” John grinned, feeling himself flush.   
“Is there anything else that needs warming, Doctor?” When John shuddered at the use of his title, Sherlock leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Two can play at that game.” The shorter man recovered, smiling widely again; “Yes, there are other things that need warming... But-” He paused, savoring Sherlock’s look of mildly aroused surprise, “Not here, and not right now.” It was unclear if the Detective had just got the message, of if he had been expecting it for a little while, when he grabbed John’s hand from out of his pocket and dragged the other man to a passing taxi. They were back at Baker Street’s door within minutes and both dashed upstairs in a flurry of barely with held passion. Scrabbling and gasping frantically, they-

“I think you should stop there, Sherlock.” John chuckled, watching his boyfriend’s eyes flick back to reality; to the group of gathered friends and family who would not appreciate a move-by-move report of their first time together. Sherlock cleared his throat and uncrossed his legs; “So, there you go.” Mrs Hudson gave an excited clap of her hands,   
“Took you long enough, though, didn’t it?” The group laughed, all recalling times that they had suspected that the crime-fighting pair were together. Mycroft gave John a fleeting glance, “If you stop my brother being so temperamental, then I suppose you can stay.” The friends and relatives all congratulated the pair, with some exchanging money from bets made years before. As the night rolled on, the party began to wind down. Mycroft called his driver to take him and Lestrade home, and Sherlock’s parents left for their hotel. Molly and Jim and Mrs Hudson said their goodbyes too, leaving John and Sherlock alone. “Peace, at last.” The Detective sighed.  
“Ever the anti-social one, you are.” John joked, crossing the room to sit in the other man’s lap. Sherlock, grinned up at him, and gripping John’s chin in his large hands, he kissed him heatedly. The shorter man pulled back to whisper in his ear; “You know when you were telling the story...”  
“Yes?” Came Sherlock’s breathy reply.  
“What was going to come after the frantic scrabbling and grasping?” The other man blushed, but still said, with a coy glance; “Oh doctor, I can show you, if you would like.”


End file.
